


Red

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Gen, batfamily, child perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 18:53:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11191263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Damian tries to understand. The sad part is, he thinks he may have understood and been lying to himself all along.





	Red

Snot-sized rubies. 

They glimmer when they catch the streetlight’s glow. 

(Rusted eyes, rusted mouth)

Damian stoically places a gloved hand upon his nose.

Broken.

Doesn’t grimace. 

“Such a shame,” he can hear his mother sigh. “You had such a distinguished nose, my little Alexander.”

Jasmine fills the air, her hair brushing against his small face. It’s a soft veil. 

(He remembers a song, a lullaby crooning in his ear)

( _Safe, safe_ )

(Lies.)

But like every soft veil, it hides vengeance. 

The tendrils feel like daggers. 

She gave him rubies, once. He can’t remember what it was for. He was but an infant.

No matter. 

He’s got rubies in his nose, after all. 

* * *

 

Narrowed eyes. 

Framed by sharp, dark lashes. 

Father looks at him, eyes narrowed as well. Only his are ice. 

And Damian’s are fire, fire, _fire._  

Rage threatens to consume him. Anger tempts him to burn Father. 

(Burn, burn, _burn_ )

But Father is Batman. 

Damian is Robin. 

Equal.

Chess pieces. Light and dark. Mind and heart. 

(…Opposing?)

Equal. 

Swords of justice. Violent poetry. Strokes of night. 

(…Respected?)

Equal. 

…But Father is Bruce. 

And Damian can’t see him. 

Father is Bruce, away from where Damian is. Away from what Damian will ever be. 

In the light, in the halo of promise.

(And the boy is shadows, born and begotten, shadows, shadows, _shadows_ –)

And Damian is. He’s Damian. 

Robin. Fire. Son.

( _Burn_.)

Not equal. 

He can see it, now. The cracks under Father’s eyes. He wish he didn’t. Because Father is ice, a glacier. 

And if ice can crack, what will happen to fire? 

“Just do as you’re told,” his father–leader, partner, stranger–intones. Damian acquiesces. 

* * *

 

Carpet. 

Damian reluctantly strokes it. It’s soft and fluffy. Like a cat. 

He’s not allowed soft things. He breaks them. Apparently, that’s bad. 

Before, he was Good. Great. 

(”You will tame the world.”)

Now, in this manor room with soft carpet and a dozen other floofy pillows (so many damn squishy things in the world) he is. Well. He is Bad. 

They don’t say that. They say “Not bad, just need guidance.” 

Their lips smile like masks of guilty hope. 

Their teeth hold back, “Horrible. Malicious. Violent. Dangerous. Needs to be contained.” 

Contained. 

( _Caged_ )

He strikes the carpet. 

The fireplace’s crackles and pops echo. 

_Crackle, pop_.

(”It hurts.”)

(“ _Shush_.”)

The carpet, foolish thing, bounces back. It’s soft. It has no form. Nothing to hurt.

He has the ability to hurt. It was refined, like a rare delicacy. He can Hurt as much as he pleases. It’s like air, a language, a game. 

It was only when Damian, who was once Great, was now termed Bad that he understood the Hurt. 

He was childish to wield it so. 

Only hard things can be hurt. 

…Well, except jellyfish. 

(Can jellyfish bleed?) 

Children are hard. Not soft. 

Children can be hurt.

_Crackle, pop_.

(So contain them)

* * *

 

“No.” 

There. He said it. 

Take it, Batman. 

Take it, Bruce. 

Take it, _Father_. 

No.

No. 

No, no, nonononono.

( _No!_ )

(Rusted eyes, rusted mouth)

Tall figure steps toward him. Damian inches away, stance open. Ready. 

Tall figure comes closer. Calculating. 

“Damian,” the voice growls. 

Is it Batman?

Is it Bruce?

Is it Father?

(Who is Father?) 

( _Shadows, shadows, shaaadooows_ )

Damian shakes his head. “No,” he refuses, slightly gleeful in his obstinacy.  

Is it Robin?

Is it Damian? 

Who cares? No means no, and no means “I win.” No means identity, no means a separate form, no means–

…What does no mean? 

He’s unsure. “No, Father,” he repeats. 

He’s lost his footing. His foundation is shaky.

Melting ice.  

_Crackle, pop_. 

(Where is Father?) 

The man stares at him. 

“All right, Damian,” he says after a long moment of hard consideration. “No.”

He can see it now. The cracks under Father’s eyes. 

He wish he didn’t.

“No?”

Father– leader, partner, stranger–nods once in agreement. “No.” 

No seems to code for “fine” and “we’ll argue later” and “I see you.” 

Damian wants to step forward.

He steps back instead.

* * *

 

Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. 

He’s small. He’s small and insignificant and he is a child. 

(He’s a child)

Goddamnit, why now? The rubies are no longer snot-sized, they’re gone.

They’re liquid, pouring out of his chest. 

No more rubies.

Mother gave them ( _took them back, took him back, dust to dust_ ) to him.

( _Shadow gifts, shadows shadows shaaadooows_ )

“Such a shame. You had such a vigorous heart, my little Alexander.” 

Alexander was shot in the neck and remained lopsided for his remaining life.  
Alexander pillaged and plundered and destroyed himself. 

Alexander died. 

They all die. 

Children die.

( _They burn, burn burn **burn**_ )

His eyes can’t see. It’s dark. Darkness means no fire, right? Ice cracks, fires go out. They disappear, like they never existed. 

(Did Damian ever exist?) 

( _Shadows, shadows, shadows_ )

He must have, if he can die. 

“Just do as you’re told.” 

He can’t. He’s Bad. 

He’s hard and he’s hurt and he’s broken and he’s a child and he’s _dying_. 

What if it’s not worth it?

(”It hurts.”)

(” _Shush_.”)

No. It’s worth it. This is his step forward. He never got a chance to do it, properly.

Figures his step forward is his goodbye. 

No matter. 

It was his Choice, after all.


End file.
